Spencer raised the weapon — and a voice cut in from the doorway behind him.

“Lower it, you idiot.” Abraham Rosales stepped into the light in a silk robe, his remaining sons behind him: Garrett, Trevor, Preston, Brandon, and Justin.

The whole pack, assembled.

“Hayden,” Abraham said, smooth as a man closing a deal. “Let’s be reasonable. Sabrina is badly hurt and may never recover. You’re a low-ranking soldier who can’t afford a premature infant with medical needs.

Leave the child, and I’ll see that you’re set up for life.”

Hayden laughed, cold and short. “You beat your own pregnant daughter into a coma, took her child, and you think a check fixes it?”